Days of Our Lives
by Adi Who is Also Mou
Summary: "She is my daughter, brother, and that is what I will tell anyone who cares." Swap!Lock. AU.


_A/N: This fic is dedicated to A Pirate By Any Other Name. I have yet to give her her birthday present, but I hope this is an appropriate placeholder. I swore to myself I would never write Parent!lock, but this idea for a Swap!lock would not leave me. Hope no one minds._

* * *

She told herself the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach was just anxiety. Anxiety for the harsh months- no doubt _years_- to come. Her first order of business was to hunt down every single member of Irene Adler's massive criminal empire and clear her name. She did not have time for good-byes. (And she didn't think she could go through another- Mary's speech at her '_gravestone'_ had nearly broken her.)

"You won't even say good-bye?"

She had woken him. She was losing her touch. Her hand still on the door handle, she turns and sees him, ignoring the fresh stab of…_something._ Her sister was right. Caring was a disadvantage.

"Sherlock, I-,"

"I probably won't ever see you again. You could at least have had the decency to say good-bye!"

He's semi-naked and his hair's a mess of dark curls (it suits him, this look), there's a mark on his neck from where she bit him earlier (her mouth waters at the sight, possessiveness and lust swim through her again, she wants nothing more than to get back into bed with him again, _lose_ herself to the sensations-). He's angry, a bright flush forming on his pale face and spreading to his chest.

He grabs at her and pulls her in his embrace, once again she is surprised at _strong_ the supposedly meek pathologist could be, she could fight him and break his hold easily, but she does not truly want to. "_Molly, Molly, Molly,"_ he chants her name as a prayer as he takes her mouth over and over, her fingers rake at his scalp, pulling their bodies closer, and she wants him to crush her, to cover her completely, she wants to curl up into him_, she is just so tired._ She wants to lose herself in the sense of security he conveyed, his tall, supportive frame wrapped around her petite one.

She could just _surrender. Her traitorous body wants to._

She pushes him away, and is relieved when the haze lifts and logic returns. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes. I hope we meet again."

The door shuts behind her, and she misses his warmth immediately. She pulls her coat tighter around her, and waits for Anthea to draw up her car.

* * *

It's two months later and she finds out she's pregnant. It's- _the baby_- is his. She is certain of it. The thought of carrying a baby made her vaguely ill, but some part of her wants to keep it. Some moronic part of her wants to keep it; she has no idea whether or not she would survive to next day, no idea when one of Butler's henchmen would find her, when _Butler_ would find her, but she wants to keep it.

He would want to know. She nearly calls him, her hand poised over the dial, when she thinks better of it.

She would be dead by the end of the month. No need to risk putting his life into danger.

Six months later, and she knows she needs help. She is huge, and even if she does not regret keeping the child, her mission is set back by several months. She has no other alternative- she _hates _her sister but she is the only one who can help.

Anthea Hooper has her settled in a Swiss villa far away from the cities with an elderly woman to look after her by the end of the week.

* * *

She stares at the tiny bundle in her hands, the small body with its tuft of brown hair. Everything about her is so small, tiny fingers and toes, a button nose, Molly can't stop staring her. She clutches her tighter. She never wants to let her go, the rush of feelings, purely biological, she is sure, and the primal instinct of a mother to protect its young. It does not make her feel any different though.

She loves this creature, unconditionally.

She cannot keep her for long.

"I want you to take her to her father," she tells Anthea, swallowing the lump in her throat. "She is not safe with me, anywhere. Take her, you know where."

"And what is her name?" Anthea's P.A asks from his position at the door, his inquisitive eyes fixed on her child. She turns a bit, her shoulder shielding the child from view.

"Coraline," she says, not taking her eyes off of Mycroft Holmes. "Coraline Holmes."

* * *

He is sure he has lost his mind when Mycroft and his boss turn up at his doorstep, carrying a newborn child. He is certain that he finally has inhaled enough chemical fumes to go crazy.

"Her name is Coraline Holmes," Mycroft says, and he does not bother looking up. He cannot tear his gaze away from the child Mycroft insists is his. She stares back at him, eyes oddly focused and he wonders if she knows what is going on.

"Wh-where's Molly?"

"She is fine and well looked after," Anthea says somewhat waspishly. "Stubborn girl, wanting to keep this child. I could have offered her an abortion at a very discreet clinic had she told me six months before."

Sherlock pulls the marvelous creature tighter to his chest, a sour taste filling his mouth. He presses her tiny ear into his heart as she begins to fuss, hoping the beat would calm her. He is severely angry at Molly, but he is glad she waited six months before telling her sister.

"Thank you Anthea. That will be all. I will look after my daughter from now on. Goodbye Mycroft."

"You can tell people that she is adopted," Mycroft says on his way out the door. "It might avoid prying questions-,"

"She is my daughter, _brother_, and that is what I will tell anyone who cares."

* * *

"_From where in bloody hell did you get a child, Sherlock?"_

John Watson is his closest friend and a better brother than Mycroft, it pains him to keep things from him, but for Molly's sake, he has to lie. John does not ask any questions, but he knows John knows his tale does not add up somehow. But there is a reason John Watson is his best friend.

"You are not telling me the truth, Sherlock. But I'm going to assume you have a very good reason not to. Please tell me that there is one such good reason, and that you don't go around knocking women up like my father used to."

Sherlock winces, and shifts Coraline into a better position. "There is a very good reason, John."

John takes one long look at him, before shrugging and extending his arms. "Alright mate. I believe you, God help me. Now give her here."

* * *

He runs into Mary Morstan while rushing to the Tesco in the middle of the day on a weekend because the nanny Anthea had hired could not be bothered to keep a stock of nappies.

He almost doesn't recognize her at first. She was a far cry from the Army Doctor who used to trail behind Molly on her cases. He is certain he can see streaks of gray in her hair.

"Sherlock," she smiles fleetingly, eyeing the trolley of baby supplies. "Well, congratulations. Or are you looking after John's-?"

"No, no, _no," _he says quickly. "This isn't for John's child, John doesn't have children, he isn't even seeing- I…I mean, this is for my…daughter."

Her eyebrows make a beeline for her hairline. "Really? Well, congratulations again. I hope to meet her someday."

He knows that would never happen. Doctor Morstan had been avoiding everyone ever since she had that grand shout at DI Hudson at Molly's 'funeral'.

"How are you, Mary?"

"Fine, fine!" she says too quickly. "Not as fine as you, but I manage. Say hello to John for me!"

And she scuttles away, avoiding his eyes, and he is so tempted to say something, anything, that would decrease the pain the woman was going through.

* * *

Molly never left his mind, but Coraline began to take up most of his time. He would come home every evening, smelling of death, and Coraline, as soon as she was able to crawl, would come to him gurgling happily, even as the nanny scowled and rushed out quickly.

He would lie in his bed at night, Coraline drooling through his night-shirt (he could not keep her in the crib for more than an hour), and wonder where she was, what she was doing, if she was thinking of him and Coraline. She was alive, Mycroft would tell him as much, but that was all he knew.

He would card his fingers through Coraline's soft fuzz of hair then, calming himself as much as soothing her.

Coraline was four when she finally asked about her mother.

"Daddy," she said as he went to pick her up from her day-care (he had had enough of Anthea's snobby nannies, he was certain they were trying to turn Coraline into some form of Anthea, but _damn it_, she was _his _daughter), "Where's my mummy?"

He had been busy maneuvering his way through the multitude of cooing single mothers, and so had been unable to hear her question. He got her ensconced in the car before finally asking, "Pardon? I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

"I know you didn't," Coraline sighed, and he was struck by how much she looked like her mother. Except her eyes. She had his eyes. "I said, where's my mummy?"

His grip tightened on the steering wheel, and he kept staring ahead.

"This is why I don't ask you stuff, Daddy. Stuff about my mummy. You get nervous."

"No, I don't. Not…always."

"Does my mummy hate me? Is that why she left me?"

"What idiot gave you that idea?"

"This boy at my daycare. He said mummy hated me, so he left me to you and ran away. Another girl said I was adopted, but I don't think so. We have the same eyes, Daddy."

"Darling," Sherlock said, feeling a lump forming in his throat. "Your mummy loves you very much, but she is away fighting the bad guys. She'll come back, she'll be back soon." _He hoped._

"I don't want to come here anymore. Can't I stay with Uncle John and Auntie Mary while you're at work? They let me do _'speriments."_

He was going to have to have a talk with John. The last time Coraline did one of her '_speriments,_ Sherlock had to eat out take-out for a whole month before he could use the kitchen again.

* * *

London.

She's home.

_Home._

Kate Butler is here, and so is the key to clearing her name. She could do this herself, but she just can't resist.

Mary shouts words at her, calls her names that would put a sailor to shame, even punches her right in the face before hugging the breath out of her. She cocks her revolver (Molly smirks, four years and she still kept that illegal gun), kisses a dazed John (she is happy her friend found someone) before the two, the Consulting Detective and the Army Doctor, launch themselves into the streets once more, Molly reveling at the familiarity.

Hours of a flurry of stake-outs, fists, a large hand nearly choking her, and one very relieved DI Martha Hudson later, she is standing at the doorstep. _His doorstep._ She had been dreading this meeting ever since she was on the flight back to London.

She presses the bell, the shrill tone making her jump.

He opens at once; his hair a mess, his eyes wide, John must have called ahead and told him.

"Is it over?" he says, his deep voice hoarse.

"_Yes,"_ she breathes, and lets herself be scooped up by him; arms wrapped tightly around each other as he pulls her in and closes the door.

He doesn't kiss her, and she is disappointed. He lets her go and she manages not to pout.

"Do you-," he trails off and her heart starts to beat a tattoo against her ribs.

"I…_Coraline,"_ she breathes as she catches sight of the girl peeking out from her room. Sherlock turns around at the same time.

"Coraline, you are supposed to be sleeping."

"You were making an awful noise, Daddy, while you were pacing."

She looks like her, _oh god, _she looks like her and has his eyes, and she has grown up, her little wondrous creature-

Coraline inches closer to her, eyes bright. "You look like me a lot. Do I know you somehow?"

"I…I…" there is something wrong with her mouth; it feels fuzzy, as if she had been forced to swallow cotton. She glances at the man standing next to her, ashamed to feel like this, weak and inadequate and-

"This is Molly, Coraline," he says for her, because he is kind to her, a kindness she does not deserve, "Molly Hooper. Your mother."

The girl's eyes widen. "_Oh."_

Molly kneels down, slowly, as if she was approaching a wild animal, and extends a shaky hand. "Hello, Coraline."

Coraline stares at her, and she sees her stiffen. _She isn't surprised._

"Daddy," the girl whispers, "I want to go to bed now."

Sherlock looks at her apologetically- _what the hell is he apologizing for?_ - scoops the girl up and takes her to her room. She stays were she is, she does not want to move and that is how he finds her ten minutes later.

"_Molly,"_ he breathes and scoops her up as well, she clutches at him, because he is Sherlock and she never understands him, why he would still hold her like this, she is a terrible mother and a terrible _person_, she does not deserve the _care _he shows her, _loneliness, _yes, that was what she deserved, that was what protected her-

"Sherlock," she says, quietly, hoping he would not hear the desperation in her voice, the pain, the hurt and anger.

"She's just a bit…She'll come around. I'm sure by morning, she's you, she's intelligent and I doubt she will let you have one moment of peace once she opens up to you."

Her back hits his bed, and she pulls him closer. He blushes, but does not protest, curling protectively around her. She fiddles with his disgusting hand-knitted jumper (his mother, last gift she gave him) and his hand slides up to rest on her waist.

He smells nice. Like detergent and baby powder, with an underlying scent of the dead, a morbid mix. But nice. She likes it.

"I was so worried," he rumbles softly, she can feel the vibrations deep in his chest. "I thought you were never going to come back."

"Did you hate me? Do you still hate me?"

She's scared, but she can hide it.

"Sometimes yes," he says thoughtfully. Her heart stops.

"But I could never hate you Molly Hooper. You have flaws, but we all do. And…and, sure, there were times I was certain I hated you, like when Anthea showed up with Coraline and I was the last one to know you were even pregnant, or the nights when Mycroft would tell me you had gone off the map _again_ and presumed dead, but I could never _ever _hate you, you are the mother of _my child_, and dammit, I _love _you, even if you will never feel the same-!"

She kisses him, hard, hoping to convey the jumble of emotions she was feeling for this _wonderful _man.

"I can't tell you how I feel about you, Sherlock. B-but, if you let me, I can show you. Show you and Coraline. I'll be a terrible mother, and a horrible, horrible girlfriend. _Girlfriend, that is so juvenile._ But, what I'm trying to say is…will you let me? Let me stay? Let me get to know Coraline? Get to know you? Please?"

He laughs, and proceeds to eliminate any space between their bodies. "Always."

* * *

_A/N: So this is for the Valentine's prompt challenge by MorbidbyDefault (morbidmegz) on tumblr. I got a bit late. Excuse the soppy title (but I think my love for Neil Gaiman shines through) I should be writing my first newspaper assignment now (something for which I will get paid) but seriously, I swear I'm Martin Crieff. I want the job, it's a writing job, I'll get paid for doing what I love, but if I take it, I won't have as much time for you guys. And you lot, forgive my creepiness, feel like family. _

_So thank you. Thank you for your support, all of you. I'll just take the time here to tell you all how much I love you._

_Thoughts? Leave a review!_

_Love,_

_Adi xo_


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